Wasted Time
by this is only a test
Summary: "The monotonous tick of the clock on the wall is driving you mad. It's mocking you, ticking off every second of your life in rapid succession." Oneshot.


Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

AN: This was popular when I posted it. Rereading through it, I find it to be a tish melodramatic, but here it is anyways!

_Tick, tock, tick_.

The monotonous tick of the clock on the wall is driving you mad. It's mocking you, ticking off every second of your life in rapid succession. Every second seems like a minute lost lately, and you're so in over your head, you can't even begin to fathom what's lost. Pause to think, and there's more lost time.

_Tick, tock, tick_.

Your number one enemy is that goddamned second hand. Nothing wrong with competition, but you're pissed you can't take a lead. For once in your life, shit's not falling into place. Once upon a time, it all came easy for you. You were the star football player, and everyone knows the MVP catches all the breaks in school. You weren't dumb by any means, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy the star treatment. Turning in an assignment late was no problem. The teacher'd wink and say, "Must've been tired from practice. I'll let it slide this once."

Sometimes you wonder if life'd be different now if you actually worked for all the fame you got as a teenager. Maybe you used up all your breaks for a lifetime. Took them for granted then, but now you'd give your right hand for the bill collector to say, "Must've been tired from work. I'll let it slide this once."

But that's wishful thinking at it's finest. You know damn well you're scrounging every last penny and withering away working just to get that bill in on time. And for what? Last month it was three days late, so you're not only paying this month's damage, but taking up a less than generous late fee, too.

_Tick, tock, tick_.

You're about ready to chuck something at the goddamned clock, but that'd be another thing to replace—another five bucks or so to tack on to the late fee. You don't _have_five bucks to spare. Hell, you're lucky to put food on the table. Even that's a struggle, but what's one more thing? As far as your concerned, everything's a battle.

And the kid wonders why you don't have the patience to fight with him on petty shit …

Every time he questions you, he wastes another minute of precious time—another minute you need just to get ahead—but what's it worth, really? You can't get ahead. But still, he grates on you with his whining and "It's not fair!" attitude. Life's not fair. It never has been and never will be, and the sooner he gets that, the sooner you can regain some sanity.

It's not that you don't care about him—probably care too much to be honest. If you could just brush him aside and throw him in some boy's home, that'd be fantastic, but you can't. Glory, you feel guilty simply letting that thought cross your mind. There's no way in hell you could. Despite what he thinks, you love actually him. Love him so much, in fact, fighting with him nearly kills you.

Snapping and yelling at him, like you do, makes you feel like shit. But lately, it's hard not to jump right to bitterness. He should know not to push you after a long day at work—not to mention all the bills and other things you've go to worry about. Every night, it seems like it's something new with him. You _didn't_ let him stay out on a school night; you _yelled _about the C he got on the last test; you _didn't_ let him get a word in the last argument. Man, he _really _has it rough with you.

You're such a strict parent.

But that's just it. You're not a parent; _just_ his brother, a big brother who happens to have paper authority. You want him to listen and expect him to comply with no hesitation, but as much as you wish he would, the fact that your guardianship is nothing more than lines on a sheet makes that difficult. Sometimes you feel bad for him. You can't even imagine what it's like to be in his shoes, having to take orders from someone who, in theory, should be your equal. It's gotta be a little different than just having a bossy older sibling, but you wouldn't know. You've always been at the top of the totem pole in that regard.

_Tick, tock, tick_.

There it is again, that fucking tick. Barely audible, but loud enough to break through your thoughts and drive you insane. Hopefully it hasn't been a minute since you sat down. A minute is sixty seconds more than you have to allocate.

You grumble and curse under your breath, hesitating to turn around and look. You don't want to know. With your luck, the truth is probably gonna fuck you over again.

_Life _is fucking you over, but that's another story that no amount of self-pity is gonna change.

Sighing, you decide as long as you're not late for work again, you'll consider it an accomplishment. After all, focusing on the little victories is about the only keeping you sane.

_Tick, tock, tick_.

The keys slip out of your fingers and shatter the glass.

God-_fucking_-dammit.

The last piece of glass falls off and you stare at the time blankly. You just lost again.

Eight minutes after six; eight minutes late; eight _fucking_ minutes you wasted thinking.

And now you'll waste another eight picking up glass. You can only hope the boss is in a good mood, because the last thing you need is to lose a portion of your paycheck, too. Not to mention your job.

But you don't have time to think about that; you've barely got the time to breathe.


End file.
